


Crooked Minds

by Creepachu



Category: In the Flesh (TV)
Genre: Autism, Depression, F/M, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Institutions, Schizophrenia, Self-Harm, Some mentions of violence, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, gonna add as the story goes on I guess, huff I think that's it, mentions of drug abuse, okay let's get this started, tragic past
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-28
Updated: 2015-01-28
Packaged: 2018-03-09 05:59:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3238928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Creepachu/pseuds/Creepachu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maybe being broken together will bring them the closest to getting fixed they have ever been.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crooked Minds

**Author's Note:**

> Hey there, you lovely people!
> 
> I decided to write depressing stuff instead of working on really important things for school again! Yay!
> 
> After finding out about ITF's cancellation and being frustrated and devastated about it I wanted to write something about those beautifully miserable characters and make them even more miserable by adding some mental health issues.
> 
> That being said, if you are easily triggered I recommend not reading this, because there's some really gloomy stuff in here, suicide and self-harm and stuff like that. Although it will get better starting next chapter, promise, but you've been warned!
> 
> One last thing: I'm no native English speaker and there will probably be a ton of mistakes and I wanna apologize in advance for that. I hope you can bear with it and still have fun reading. -bows-
> 
> Okay, I will shut up now.

Everyone is familiar with that feeling when you know that something bad is about to happen, you don't have the slightest clue what it could be, you just _know_.

Everyone knows that sickening tingling in your stomach, like butterflies turning into maggots that eat away at your insides, burying themselves in your intestines as the worst kind of agitation.

And all you can do is wait for it to happen. To finally blow over and hope that the impact won't break you for good.

 

“It's Rick, he's ...”

 

* * *

 

A father rushes into a hospital, tears in his eyes and blood on his clothes.

In his arms, dangling like a puppet made of porcelain, skin just as white, is his son.

His breath is weak, barely any left. Crimson drips steadily from both of his wrists, leaving a bloody trail on the white linoleum floor of the hospital behind.

 

“Me son, please... Help... me son...”

 

* * *

 

People always wonder what dying would feel like. What will they see? Will there be a God or the Devil waiting to lead them into the afterlife?

 

To me, dying was like falling.

Like falling endlessly through infinite darkness without feeling the weight of my body anymore, like only my mind and soul existed, endlessly drifting through a nightly ocean.

I never had specific assumptions about what the Afterlife would be like, I didn't expect demons with gruesome disfigured faces, black skin and leathery wings to open the gates of Hell in front of me, no. Admittedly, I expected a little bit more than drifting through infinite darkness, but I guess you didn't really get to say much on the matter of how you wanted to leave this world.

To be honest, I was simply happy to don't feel anymore.

There was no more pain, no more fear, no more crippling grief. Just me existing and floating in an endless ocean of darkness.

And I would've been perfectly fine if it stayed like that, may it have been a gift or punishment.

But then there was light, a pin of white in the distance at first. It slowly grew bigger with every nonexistent heartbeat, like I was caught in the current of this black ocean, slowly drifting closer to the strange source of light. 

It was a cold kind of light, neither the warm rays of heavenly sunshine you would expect in Heaven, nor the unforgiving and burning flames they said Hell was made of.

And as cliche as it may sound, I genuinely believed that I saw the light at the end of the tunnel and thought that was it. I did it, finally. I was free.

However, the closer I got the stronger my invisible body was suddenly filled with a dull feeling of fear. The possibility that the light maybe wasn't the the end of the road I longed for occurred to me. What if some otherworldly being decided I needed a second chance to make up or something, like this bullshit you always see in movies. Maybe they didn't realize that I wanted exactly that the least?

I didn't want to leave the darkness, I wanted to stay in this state of nothing, but without a body I was unable to fight against it and drifted only closer and closer like a leaf in the current until the unforgiving light had me fully embraced.

 

* * *

 

 

Then it was like being born again, but in all the wrong ways.

My senses came crashing down on me like waves of cold, dark water. It felt like the ocean of darkness decided to reject me and flush me back out into reality by force, the impact breaking every single bone in my body.  

I struggled to breath and choked on phantom water filling my lungs and nose.

The artificial, cold light, that managed to shine even through my closed eyelids, made my head feel like it was filled with a bunch of angry bees that stung the inside of my head every time I dared to try and crack my eyes open.

The feeling returned into my limps but they didn't feel like my own, rather like someone attached someone else's legs and arms to my body.

My chapped lips parted to let something resembling a strangled gurgle escape my dry throat. Apparently I wasn't alone in the unknown room, because as soon as I gave the indication that I was awake I felt a presence next to me and cold fingertips at my neck that caused me to flinch.

A muttered “Sorry.” and the realization that there was another person in the room peaked my urge to find out where I was, how I got there and _why_ exactly I still seemed to be alive.

I squinted and felt my eyes tear up at the stinging sensation of the light hitting my eyes without any protection. Whose idea was it to make this room so damn bright?

My first attempt at speaking ended in me choking out incomprehensible words and nearly coughing my lungs out. My whole body felt like I actually drowned.

I felt a hand on my shoulder in a reassuring manner and a female voice said: “Now, now, don't strain yourself.”.

I blinked some more tears away and gladly noticed that I was able to open my eyes without going blind. I turned my head to the source of the voice, at which the mob of angry bees in my head protested fervently, and saw a young woman that looked like the epitome of porn nurses, I swear to god. (Not that I would ever watch porn, just to put this straight.)

She looked me over with an expression that read that she would rather manicure her unnaturally long, red fake-nails than pretend to care for the health of a scrawny 18 year old. Her bored expression was only enhanced by the way she slowly and really intensely chewed bubblegum, white teeth showing behind bright pink lips whenever she popped a bubble. I remember thinking that she could have been rather pretty if it weren't for the at least five layers of make-up covering her eyes and whole face, causing her skin to look an unnatural tone of orange. Her bleached hair fell above her bloated looking, and surely not entirely natural, breasts which nearly fell out of her barely buttoned up blouse right into my face as she leaned over me to grab a clipboard from the bedside table.

I actually forgot to take the opportunity to ask some questions in favor of staring at the nurse as she scribbled down a few things on the clipboard and wondered if I arrived in Hell after all.

Luckily, she took matter in her own, manicured hands as she asked me in a voice that matched her bored expression: “How ya feelin'?”

I remained silent for a few moments of silence only filled with smacking noises until I progressed that I was just asked a question.

“Ah, uh ...” I cleared my throat, still dry as a desert. “Actually ... I'm kinda thirsty.”

The nurse even managed to nod in a bored manner and exited the room on bright pink high heels and with swaying hips to hopefully get me something liquid.

Being alone presented me with the opportunity to look around the strange room I laid in. By now, I figured that I was in a hospital and the looks of the room only confirmed that assumption.

Like in every hospital, everything was really … white. The walls were completely white, the linoleum floor had the color of light grey, the bed I was lying on and the two other unoccupied ones in the room were also completely clad in white. The flouncy curtains in front of the windows were white as well and it looked nearly alien when I looked through the windows and saw only blackness dotted with a few pins of light.

I wondered how late it was when I was interrupted by the sound of heels on linoleum and the nurse returned with a bottle of water which I took gratefully and with a strained, little smile.

Sitting up was a task I only managed to handle with groaning and flinching a lot, while the blonde nurse didn't even consider helping me and pretended to be more interested in the clipboard that was still in her hands. I felt like an bedridden 80 year old, my body aching all over, and probably sounded like one as well.

“So.”

I nearly spit out my first gulp of water as I jumped at the unexpected voice of the nurse.

“I'm gonna give ye the quick summary, the doctor will probably go into detail later.”

I nodded in acknowledgment, even though it didn't seem to be required since she simply started rambling off facts she read from the clipboard in her hands with a, surprisingly, rather bored voice.

“Kieren Walker, 18 year old, born and raised in Roarton, admitted on the 18th of October at approximately 20:30. The patient was unconscious at the time of the hospitalization and suffered from acute blood loss caused by cuts on both wrists. It is assumed that both wounds were self inflicted by the patient. The patient was treated immediately and managed to survive.”

I knew what I did and I did it fully aware of the consequences, which were that I shouldn't have been able to hear someone say it out loud, but it still moved something inside me hearing someone say it out loud. I gulped.

“That right so far?”

She probably wanted me to mainly confirm the details about myself, age and name, but with the nod I answered her I also admitted to the last part. Self inflicted. Suicide.

I tried to kill myself.

No, wrong.

I _wanted_ to kill myself.

I _wanted_ to die.

I went into that cave in the forest with the thought of it becoming my last resting place.

The next words of the nurse were deafened by slowly growing anger heating my face and closing up my ears. I was angry, really fucking angry.

I  wanted to end it with my own hands, I wanted to finally escape from the disappointment I was calling my life.

I was the happiest I had ever been in my bubble of darkness, would have gladly drifted in there forever if it meant to never feel again. To never feel that grief, that sadness, that hopelessness again. 

It was crippling, handicapped my very being and made it a disappointment to wake up still breathing every morning. I wanted to escape and I was so close, so goddamn close.

“Who found me?”

I obviously startled the nurse and probably interrupted her little speech, kinda rudely on top of that, but I didn't give a flying fuck.

The only answer I got at first were two painted on eyebrows raised to her bleached hairline in surprise.

“'scuse me?”

“Who found me?”

I repeated my question in a voice laced with anger and the nurse's surprise turned into confusion at my sudden mood swing.

“Uh, yer dad, I think. The doctor knows fer sure.”

I screwed my eyes shut and cursed internally. Out of all the people.

Out of all the people who could have found me, a neighbor wandering the forest on a sunny afternoon, one of those goth kids looking for a good place to get high or anyone else I wasn't close or related to (which would be anyone in Roarton), it had to be my Dad.

Although I should have thought of the possibility, Jem was the only one who knew of the cave, after all. She probably told Mum and Dad about it as soon as they noticed that I was gone from the room that I haven't left in weeks.

But it never came to my mind when I grabbed the clasp-knife I got from Dad for my birthday some years ago and just ran for it. Chest filled with grief, black and tough like tar, burning me from the inside out and only the thought of how to make it stop clouding my mind.

Bloody hell. 

“Want me to get the doctor?”, the nurse asked and although I couldn't see her expression I thought that I could hear the slightest hint of concern in her voice.

I nodded as an answer, even though I hardly registered her question through the white noise in my ears.

After I cracked open my eyes again and realized that she was indeed gone, I let my head drop back on the pillow and the breath I hadn't realized I was holding left my lungs in a sigh that sounded like I had a graveyard sitting in my lungs.

I was in for one hell of a pity party, that was for sure.

I actually considered jumping out of the window when I heard the door to my room open and turned my head from looking out into the night to greet the new intruder with an expression that was all kinds of tired.

I expected a doctor who looked just as cliche as porn nurse, white coat wafting behind him and professional Hollywood smile plastered on a tan face, but instead a man in his early fifties entered, with wet eyes and an expression on his face like he was chasing a ghost.

“Dad?”

“Oh thank god.”

He crossed the room in a few quick strides and before I could even properly register the dark shadows beneath his eyes and the tear streaks on his stubby cheeks my face was squished into his shoulder, strong arms wrapping me in a choking hug.

I wasn't able to react, couldn't hug him back, could only stare at the white wall while my dad rocked back and forth with me in his arms, muttering choked thanks to whoever resided above under his breath. He pulled back after a few moments and I felt like someone grabbed my heart and gave it a good squeeze when I looked my father in his tear stained face. He looked so goddamn old.

I felt all my anger vanish and getting replaced by the nagging feeling of guilt creeping up my air pipe and taking all the breath from my lungs.

“Kieren, son ...” His huge hand caressed my hair in what I assumed was supposed to be a soothing manner and I felt like crying. “Why would ye do something like this?”

I couldn't turn my gaze from his face, tears still threatening to fall from those eyes that were so familiar yet filled with emotions I never wanted to see reflected in their brown depths. It hurt to see all these questions written all over his face and more so that I didn't know how to answer them.

How do you explain that life was meaningless in your eyes? That every day was nothing more than a nuisance you had to survive? That every look, every whisper killed you a little bit more inside every time?

How do you explain that kind of tiredness you couldn't cure with sleep?

I watched his gaze slip downward, saw the hesitation at first and then curiosity taking over and I followed with my own eyes to look at the very evidence of what brought me here.

Both of my wrists were covered thickly with bandage, hiding the wounds from our eyes but we both knew what laid behind. When my hands started trembling I returned my gaze to my father's face to see his eyes continuing to scan my bare arms.

He hadn't seen my arms laid open like that in years and I felt like I might as well stand completely naked surrounded by thousands of people as his eyes skipped from one scar to another and another and another …

“Why have ye never talked to us, Kier?”

He looked like he was searching for answers in every scar written on my skin.

His voice was barely above a whisper and I closed my eyes at the pain that went along his words.

“There are things that cannot be solved with words, Dad.”

My voice was barely above a whisper as well and I had to swallow several times to cease the burn in my throat that my words left after I said them out loud. I had to force myself to open my eyes and find those of my Dad again.

Confusion, sadness, and so much hurt.

I was so sick of hurting people.

He embraced me in another hug, his tears wetting the ugly, turquoise hospital gown I was apparently forced to wear.

“I'm so sorry, Kier, so sorry ...”

When I closed my eyes again I felt one single tear slipping down my cheek and a new determination settle in my mind. 

I would get it right next time, I had to. 

I never wanted to hurt those dear to me again and I couldn't achieve that by staying by their side.

My very existence was like a razor blade to those who wanted me near them, I was only meant to hurt and make them suffer.

I was the only one meant to bleed.

 

* * *

 

 

After a few minutes of silent tears and choked apologies directed at the wrong person Dad settled next to my bedside on a chair he pulled over from the small table standing in the corner of the room.

I watched him rub his tired face with both his hands, staying with his face hidden for a few moments before he raised his head and looked at me. I was relieved to see no fresh tears in his eyes, but felt uneasy at the same time when I couldn't figure out what this new expression was meant to tell me.

He looked uncomfortable, nervous even, fiddling with the wedding ring on one of his fingers and opening and closing his mouth in search for the right words.

“Kieren, after I … after I found you two days ago.”

He swallowed and stayed silent for another few moments after that, eyes trained on the grey floor beneath his feet.

I would have acted surprised at the fact that I slept away two meaningless days if it weren't for the tone in my father's voice distracting me. It was unfamiliar, for him to talk that seriously and I still had no clue what he was trying to tell me.

“Yer mum and me talked to the doctor, nice lad, he is. Anyway.” He cleared his throat and still refused to meet my gaze as he continued, his expression melting into something that resembled guilt a lot.

“We … we came to the decision that ye shouldn't come home, yet.”

I would lie if I said that it didn't affect me that my own parents were tired of me. I could see why, even I was tired of myself, but it still stung to know that they had given up on their own flesh and blood.

“Yer going somewhere where they can help ya.”

Finally, my Dad mustered the courage to look into my eyes, to tell me eye to eye that they were getting rid of me. I swallowed and tried to prevent my voice from trembling.

“And where's that?”

My Dad reached behind himself and searched for something in the back pocket of his ugly designer Jeans that he was so proud of. When he found it he reached out to hand it to me.

It was a brochure with several dog-ears, it seemed like someone read through it a few times already. The front cover was mostly taken up by a picture of a building that looked like one of those old, forgotten asylums you often see in horror movies. I found out that I wasn't too far away from the truth when I read the title of the brochure, which seemed to be the name of the building at the same time, out loud:

“Psychiatric Hospital Roarten Hearts.”

My parents wanted to send me to a bloody psych ward. Well, at least they finally accepted that their son was a nut job. 

Nonetheless, I wanted to yell at my Dad and ask him how the bloody hell it was supposed to help me to lock me up with people who were just as fucked up as me, getting reminded day by day just how broken I was?

But I kept my grim thoughts to myself and turned to face my dad with what I hoped looked at least approximately like a pleased expression, anything that didn't resemble the mixture of rage and hurt swirling around in my insides.

I didn't need help, I couldn't be fixed, I was sure of that. But I was willing to put up the facade of trying to get better for just a little while, I owed them that much. 

I may have been a suicidal mess, but I was nothing if not grateful towards my parents for putting up with my shit all these years. That's why I was willing to suck it up and try to at least make up what I did to them a few days ago, to at least cleanse the guilt from my system before doing them the favor to vanish for good the next time.

“It ain't as bad as it looks, they got a soccer field and a library and ye can even draw, that's nice, aye?”

I gave a curt nod while forcing myself to maintain the strained smile on my lips. I pretended to intently read about the facility I would apparently soon call my home as I thumbed through the brochure and nodded when I deemed it appropriate to the rambling of my dad about how nice the rooms were and that they even got a Blu-ray player in their common room, the same like we got at home, ain't that great, son?

I only listened halfheartedly to my Dad talk, but from what I heard it sounded a lot like prison to me. Getting locked up in rooms, getting pills forced down your throat and punished if you didn't do what they told you to do. Fun times.

Dad rose to his feet with a surprised noise and announced that it was nearly two am and that he had to get going or Mum would send out the police. Again.

He hugged me goodbye and it wasn't full of tears this time, but instead of forced smiles and lies.

He told me that the doctor would come visit me first thing in the morning and that they would come around to bring some of my stuff and see me off after that.

I was beyond thrilled.

After my Dad was gone I turned on my side, staring out of the window into the black night, content on getting some sleep, even though I knew that it wouldn't come. It never did when I needed it most.

When I closed my eyes I saw a familiar face in front of me, smiling and laughing that heartwarming laugh at something only he heard.

 

Soon, Rick, soon.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Now, that was kinda depressing.
> 
> Anywhoozles, I hope you liked it and tune in the next time for our beautiful genius Amy, flower talk (literally) and Kieren uh... probably moping about how bad his life is.
> 
> Love ya!


End file.
